


you used to look at me like that

by fruity_little_bard



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:48:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24481519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fruity_little_bard/pseuds/fruity_little_bard
Summary: Written 5/15/18 for WR245.Out of context excerpt from what will eventually be a much longer work.





	you used to look at me like that

The lamp promises Anton warmth, the kind that food and clothing and others cannot provide. Its single burning bulb tells him he is beautiful. It does not matter that nobody else can hear the lamp.

Given as a last-minute gift on his 20th birthday, the lamp stands taller than he is, and has places for three other light bulbs. Only the first bulb still burns, its companions having winked out months ago. Anton had cried for the lamp then, and promised to buy it new bulbs once his next paycheck came in. But that never happened. Anton has not left his apartment for almost a month.

Weak sunlight sneaking in through the partially open curtain illuminates Anton where he lays, in a mass of blankets, curled up around the base of the lamp. Joints pop when he stretches out, rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling. He hates this dingy little apartment, the smells of rotting food coming from the fridge. The sourness of dried sweat on his skin has him rolling up his shirt sleeve. Multiple welts, raised up and an angry red, mar his left arm. Looking up at the lamp, he says in a voice cracked and hoarse from disuse, “you said that you’d stop the nightmares.”

The lamp says nothing in response, but that single bulb glows brighter, and Anton smiles. His lips are chapped, scabbed over in bloody splits. Pushing greasy black hair out of his face, he gets unsteadily to his feet. Things that did not hurt 2 years ago, when he first got the lamp, do now. His stomach is almost always empty, but the warmth from the lamp keeps him full. That is the only nourishment he needs. Fresh air and blue sky pale in comparison to the light that emanates from that bulb. Nothing else matters, as long as he is able to bask in its warmth. 

His phone rings. Half-surprised that he manages to keep his phone charged in the midst of his life collapsing around him, Anton considers just letting it go to voicemail. Still, he digs the infernal device out of his jeans pocket, looks at the display on the screen. “Joy,” with the heart eyes emoji is what greets his tired eyes, and something close to how the lamp makes him feel blossoms in his stomach. Accepting the call, he puts the phone on speaker and is about to speak when Joy practically yells, “where the hell are you?! Why aren’t you answering my calls?!”

_ Calls? _ Anton asks himself, takes a second to go through the missed calls. Close to 45, they’re all from Joy. Same with the voicemails that he isn’t going to listen to, at least until he wants to punish himself for being a bad person, a bad boyfriend. “Oh,” he finally says.

“I thought you were dead,” Joy says quietly, and the obvious tears in his voice sends a stab of guilt into Anton’s heart. 

“Not dead yet,” he replies, forces a chuckle that isn’t returned.

“I tried to come over. You didn’t answer the door.”

Anton doesn’t remember that. He does, however, briefly wonder why Joy didn’t just use the spare key taped inside the mail slot, but said key laying trapped under his foot answers that question. He doesn’t know when he took it from the slot. The days run together, and he can’t say for certain what it is he even does. The one thing he knows he for sure  _ doesn’t _ do is eat. Sleep comes only after too long spent awake, and never lasts long enough. 

“I’m sorry, Joy,” he says, shuffling over to the door to return the spare key to its home. And god, he really is. If he could snap his fingers and make himself be well, he would. He’d do almost anything for Joy. Except for leaving the lamp. Being away from its warmth, its light and kind words permanently, might kill him. Or he would kill himself out of grief. It doesn’t really matter how or why it would happen. But Joy would be alone.

“Anton?” Joy asks, after almost a minute of silence has lapsed between them.

Anton nods, realizes Joy can’t see him, and so settles for grunting instead. Crude, sure, but this is the most talking he’s done in a long time. The strain on his vocal cords makes his throat hurt.

“I’m coming over after work,” Joy says. “I’m going to make you dinner.”

About to grunt again, he instead goes for asking what time. Joy tells him 6:30, says he loves him before hanging up. “I love you, too,” Anton tells the silent phone line.

Anton stays where he is for a second, swaying drunkenly back and forth. Checking his phone, he groans at the time: only 7am. He’s got 11 hours to make himself presentable. Maybe shower, clean out the rotten food in the fridge. Clean up his bedding from the living room floor, and even leave the apartment to get groceries. But still he stands there, feeling overwhelmed just by the task of staying alive. His head starts to pound, and then the lamp calls to him, basks him in its warmth and brightness.

And, like a moth to the flame, Anton goes back over to his nest of blankets, curls up around the base of the lamp again. 

====

When the passing hours stop at 6:30pm, Anton is still asleep on the ground, snoring softly into the crook of his arm. Loud knocking on the door doesn’t wake him, and neither does the sounds of a hand reaching into the mail slot, feeling around for the spare key taped to the inside. The door squeaks loudly when it opens, and the first fresh air in almost a month wafts into the dank little apartment. 

He sits up then, mass of blankets pooling around his thin waist. Pushing greasy hair out of his eyes, he blinks up at Joy. Oh, beautiful Joy, still wearing his apron from working in the deli at New Seasons. “Hey,” Anton says.

“Hey, babe,” Joy replies, holds out his hand. Anton takes it gratefully, allows himself to be pretty much dragged to his feet. Things crack in his knees and back, and the sound his neck makes when he twists it is loud enough to make Joy flinch. 

Bending to pick up the bags of groceries from where he had set them on the ground, Joy crosses the living room into the kitchen, puts them on the bar. Anton follows after him, not sure what to do or say to explain the state of himself and his apartment. Things got away from him. So many hours and days. Though, to be fair, the only part of the small apartment that even looks lived in is the corner in the living room by the lamp. Everything else is dusty and unused. The only thing he really remembers is the lamp, gazing up at it lovingly, hoping that the warm glow would swallow him up. 

Joy puts a hand on his shoulder, and Anton nearly jumps out of his skin. He’s grown unused to sharing space with other people, unsure what to do with his hands or even what to say.  _ How do you talk to people?? Oh god, how do you even people??? _ Joy saves him from spiraling into an anxiety attack by saying, “you wanna peel the potatoes and I’ll cut them?”

This is good. Something to do with his hands besides picking at what remains of his fingernails and the skin around them. He nods happily, brings the bag of potatoes over to the sink to rinse them. At least there are no dirty dishes; all the plates and bowls, forks and spoons, hardly ever used. 

Anton runs six potatoes under the cold rush of water. The raw skin on his fingers burns, and he briefly wishes for better coping mechanisms. Like impulsively shaving his head, or more meds. Though, there isn’t much more he can be put on, or diagnosed with. Is there a maximum limit of diagnoses a person can have? Hell, the depression, anxiety, insomnia and…. _ hallucinations _ is already more than he can handle. The chronic hand tremors are a nice reminder of that, though he can’t say for sure if they tremors are from the cocktail of medication or the whole not eating thing. Knowing his luck, probably both. 

Looking down at his hands, Anton realizes he’s managed to peel all but one potato without even realizing. Joy looks over at him from where he’s chopping the potatoes into neat little chunks, gives a small smile that settles something hot in Anton’s empty stomach. Affection or love, he doesn’t know. But it’s almost stronger than the warmth the lamp makes him feel. He hands over the last potato, then scoops the peels into the nearly empty trash can. Another “perk” of the no eating thing, he tells himself bitterly. 

====

Anton eats too much. He is aware of this, from the way that his stomach, shrunk to half its size, twists and churns with the seconds he forces down his throat. But just the sensation of sinking his teeth into something that isn’t the inside of his mouth is so heavenly, he can’t make himself stop. The steak is tender and just the right amount of bloody, and god, the potatoes are like soft little pillows. 

All this good food that he and Joy made together. All of this nourishment that his starving and panicking body doesn’t know what to do with. It’s all suddenly too much. He gags, almost spews half-chewed food onto the table. A burning combination of food not yet digested and stomach acid tries to crawl its way up his throat. He groans, moves to stand up from his chair, and collapses on the floor. 

He lays there, shaking and sweating. The lamp glows brighter from where it stands, silent and watching, and everything goes white. When Anton’s vision clears, Joy is holding back his greasy hair as he kneels in front of the toilet and loses all that beautiful food they had made together. The guilt from that sends a fresh wave of agony shooting up from his stomach. Finally, empty of everything, he sags back against Joy. “Sorry I ruined dinner,” he says weakly. 

Nudging Anton so he lifts up his arms and Joy is able to peel off his boyfriend’s sweat-soaked shirt, Joy says, “be quiet and let me run you a bath.”

Anton only nods, wants desperately to be back in the company of the lamp. Even from the bathroom, he finds that that is too far away. The light from that single bulb can’t penetrate the few feet of darkness between the two rooms. His stomach twists, and he leans over, spits mostly stomach acid into the toilet. 

Steam, smelling of lavender, slowly fills the bathroom. Anton still isn’t sure how he feels about lavender, since it’s the kind of perfume his mother was wearing when she and his father kicked him out for being a “dirty homosexual.” But, Joy likes how it smells, and that’s enough for Anton. God knows he causes his boyfriend enough anxiety as it is, and enduring this pretty minor thing is the least he can do. Joy helps him to his feet, gently removes the rest of his clothing. There are soft kisses pressed to the edges of his jutting hip bones, and the warm water envelopes his aching body. Joy sits on the edge of the tub, holds his hand. The tattoo of Joy’s name on Anton’s chest, right over his heart, makes Joy want to cry. He remembers how strong Anton’s grip was when he got that tattoo, crushing his hand. Now, his hand is like a paper crane, all jutting angles and fragile edges. 

“Oh, Anton,” Joy says, moving so he can rub shampoo into his boyfriend’s hair, “I don’t know how to help you.” 

Turning to look at him, Anton grins weakly, replies, “I don’t need help, I just need a cigarette.” He holds up his hands, looks at how they shake. A cigarette would stop that shaking. He knows it would. The nicotine filling his lungs, chasing away that tremor and the anxiety of being alive, of living in a dying body. 

Joy gets up, leaves the door open. The lamp glows brighter, and Anton feels some of that suffocating darkness lift from his mind. That light is soon blocked, however, when Joy comes back holding a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a lighter that depicts a naked woman on the side. A joke that used to make them laugh, but doesn’t even garner a smile now. Everything is just too real, too tired and fragile. 

Sitting back down on the edge of the tub, Joy pulls out a cigarette. He hands it to Anton, who fits it between his teeth and leans forward so Joy can light it. The tiny flame dances between them, and Anton wonders if swallowing that brightness would ward off the cold inside him. But even if he were on fire, he would probably still be frozen, all blue lips and fingers. He sighs, leans back against the wall behind the bathtub to blow smoke out his nose. Joy moves forward to kiss his cheek, takes the cigarette to have a drag of his own. 

In the silence that hangs between them, Joy puts his hand over the tattoo of his name. Anton puts his hand on top of Joy’s, gives it a squeeze. 

====

For the next two weeks, Joy comes over everyday after work. He brings groceries, cooks dinner, and paints over the black charcoal drawings Anton does on the wall of the lamp. The first time he saw those drawings, all jagged and angry with light bulbs hanging over headless bodies, he actually burst into tears. (When that happened, it was clear that Anton didn’t know what to do, and had put a hand on Joy’s shoulder, all the while looking like a kicked puppy). His boyfriend, his first and only love, seems to be drifting so far away, and he doesn’t know how to call him back. So Joy does the only thing he can, and paints the apartment a soft eggshell white.

All the other drawings and paintings that Anton had done over the years are stored under his bed that is hardly ever slept in, and stacked haphazardly in the closet. So much work, done by those two beautiful hands, taken over by a mental illness fueled obsession with a lamp that Anton thinks loves him. The way he looks at the lamp, he used to look at Joy like that. With all the love in the world so big and bright in his eyes. Now, he is vacant looks and gazing longingly at the lamp, like it were a lover, instead of just electric cables and that single damned bulb.

Joy hates that damn lamp. Hates it so much. Hates Anton’s parents for sending their son such a shitty gift, after not even speaking to him since they’d abandoned him at 16. But the one time Joy had tried to get rid of the lamp, Anton had had such a horrible panic attack he’d ended up making himself sick. The way Anton begged him to leave the lamp, to not take it away from him, made Joy want to call someone who could deal with this. But since his boyfriend was no longer a minor, he could only be held in a psychiatric ward for 72 hours, and Joy didn’t see that doing anything but making it all so much worse. So he left the lamp alone, if only for Anton’s sake.

Joy picks Anton up off the floor from where he sleeps curled around the lamp base, makes sure he showers and doesn’t force himself to eat until he makes himself sick. That’s scary to Joy, and he just doesn’t know what to do. But he makes it work, stays sitting on the floor by the lamp, running his fingers through Anton’s hair until he falls asleep. Then, and only then, does Joy carry his boyfriend, light enough to have hollow bones, into the bedroom. 

They lay there together, and Joy holds Anton close, like that can keep him from floating away and being too far gone to come back to how things used to be. Like when they would go on picnics and Anton would bring a sketchbook to draw him under trees and among flower bushes. They were happier then, and Joy wants that back. He selfishly wants,  _ needs _ , Anton to stay alive. He doesn’t know how to do this on his own, never wants to find out if he can. 

====

And they make it work like that, they really do. But Anton becomes more and more vacant, spends longer and longer just sitting on the ground and gazing up at the lamp. On the last day where things are really as close to okay as they have been in so long, Joy says quietly, “you used to look at me like that.”

Anton looks at him then, like tearing his gaze away from that light is painful. But it’s like he’s looking right through Joy, and that breaks something that makes Joy get up and leave the apartment. He locks the door behind him, goes home alone with only a heavy heart for company.

====

A day and a half later, Anton lays on the ground, having foregone the blankets to be closer to the base of the lamp. His stomach lurches, growls at him to eat. He ignores it, lights a fourth cigarette off the third. He is just so tired, and pressed up against the lamp like this, he feels so warm finally. So full of warmth and light. His eyes close, and he slumps back against the wall, hands falling into his lap.

Burning embers from the cigarette fall onto the frayed cord of the lamp, causing sparks to jump like a mini show of fireworks. And still Anton sleeps, not even waking up when smoke begins to fill the apartment. What finally does wake him is not, however, the cigarette burning a hole in his jeans and into his skin, but a bright white light engulfing him.

“You can’t come with me, Anton,” a beautiful voice says. His eyes fly open, and he is met with a wall of crackling warmth. The lamp is burning. His hands are burning where they had been clasping the frayed cord of the lamp. His lungs cry out for oxygen that is not full of smoke, and with tears in his eyes, he crawls to the door of his apartment.

====

After spending a good portion of his shift frantically texting and calling Anton, Joy skips out of work early and drives too fast to the apartment building where his love lives. What he’s met with is smoke billowing out of the busted windows of Anton’s apartment, and an ambulance speeding away from the scene.

Stopping the car, Joy runs up to an EMT standing next to a second ambulance. The man looks at him, and Joy already has tears falling down his face as he asks, “what happened? Was anybody hurt?” 

Putting a comforting, steadying hand on Joy’s shoulder, the EMT says, “so far, it looks like faulty wiring caused the fire. And the only person hurt was found unconscious on the second floor landing of the building.”

“Was that them in the ambulance just now?” The hope in Joy’s voice makes his teeth hurt.

“Sure was,” the EMT says. “Poor guy had inhaled a bunch of smoke and burned his hands pretty bad. But for how big the fire was, he should have been hurt more.”

Joy hears something about a miracle as he thanks the man and runs back to his car.

====

The elderly doctor offers Joy coffee, and then goes to buy him a Sprite from the vending machine down the hall. There are tears dried in tacky streaks down both sides of Joy’s face, and he starts crying again when the doctor hands him the can of soda. Sitting down next to him on the bench outside Anton’s room, the doctor says, “your friend is very fortunate that he was not more injured in the fire.”

Joy nods, not trusting himself to speak, waits for the doctor to continue. “Anton inhaled a good portion of smoke, and suffered second degree burns on his hands, but those will heal.”

Handing Joy a small packet of papers, neatly stapled in the left-hand corner, the doctor gives him a second to flip through them before explaining, “I believe that it is in the best interest of Anton if he is placed in a combination psychiatric and eating disorder ward until he is stable again. I have arranged for him to be transferred from here in three days.”

Joy wants so badly to hug the doctor then, but instead clasps the older mans’ hand in both of his instead. “Thank you,” he says, voice a rusty croak from crying so much. 

====

After sitting on the bench for a few moments longer, Joy takes a deep breath and goes into Anton’s room. His boyfriend is asleep, black hair spread out on the white pillow case like an inkspill. Since his hands are thickly bandaged, Joy places a hand on Anton’s chest, over the tattoo of his name. The heart beat through the hospital gown is strong, and Joy knows that they will get back to being happy and well again together.

Anton stirs, cracks open an eye. His gaze is glassy, evidence of the IV taped to the inside of his thin arm doing its job to ward off the pain of his burned hands. His beautiful hands. “Hey,” he rasps, cracked lips pulling into a smile, “get over here and lay down, make me less lonely in this big old bed.” Grinning, Joy wedges himself between Anton’s side and the railing of the bed. 

“Hey yourself,” Joy says, voice still thick from crying, and kisses Anton on the lips, feeling love fill him up when his boyfriend smiles into the kiss. 

Yeah, they’re gonna be okay. He just knows it. 

  
  
  
  



End file.
